Chaos anw-1

by John O'Brien

  “I can’t very well leave you here alone.”

  “I am not without my own resources and abilities,” she responds back.

  “Okay, we’re leaving in the morning and may be gone for up to ten days. I’m not sure we will be able to maintain contact. Robert, let’s go get Michelle.”

  Robert heads toward the door again. I start to follow him but turn quickly back to mom and the girls on the couch, “You should probably grab blankets and nails while we’re gone. We should think about covering up the windows at the very least. Maybe bring those pallets up from the shed so we can put some form of barricade up on the windows.”

  “You two go. We’ll dig some things up around here,” Mom says giving both Nic and Bri reassuring hugs.

  Robert picks the shotgun up and continues toward the door. I pick up the Beretta, holster it, and follow him out.

  Outside, on a day where we would normally be gearing up for a hike along the river or on our mountain bikes tearing up and exploring some new trail, I instead tell Robert to put the shotgun in the Jeep and then meet to me back here. He looks at me in askance but heads to do it anyway. I walk around to the side of the front porch, really just a small deck, pick up one of the hoses coiled there and cut off three sections of hose approximately five feet long laying them on the ground beside me. Robert finishes and is back beside me by the time I have finished.

  “Go down to the lower shed. There should be two or three metal gas canisters in there. The tall ones. Bring those back up here. Oh, and that big, long-necked funnel on the shelf,” I tell him.

  As he heads to the shed, I walk over to my place. Beside my bed, I have two TAC-II Gerber knives. These are double-edged knives with serrations and 6 ½ inch blades. I grab both of them and head back out. Robert is lugging two metal five gallon gas cans and funnel up the path from the shed and we meet by the hoses.

  “Are they empty?” I ask, handing him one of the knives.

  He lifts first one, and then the other shaking them. I hear liquid sloshing around in both. Picking one up, I walk toward the road as Robert picks up the other and follows. Whatever is in there may be old or have condensation so I do not trust the content of the cans. Unscrewing the cap, I dump mine on the gravel road. Robert does the same. I do not feel overly guilty about this as I have the feeling mankind’s carbon footprint is now going to be drastically reduced.

  Securing the equipment in the back of the Jeep, we start her up, back out of the drive, and head down the road. “Don’t worry,” I tell him once we get up to speed, “we’ll get her and she’ll be just fine.”

  “I know,” he says reaching over to the radio and starts going through the stations. Good idea, I think to myself. After going through all of the stations twice, he leans back into his seat. Nothing. “Try the AM,” I suggest. Again, there is nothing but static.

  We make it to the highway with both of us looking out of the windows drifting in our own thoughts. I still have not seen a single living person other than us. Nothing moving but wildlife — I notice I have now put the dog I saw earlier into this category. The roads are still empty and the only thing moving is the sun as it wends its way westward toward the hills. The hills are bald in many places due to the logging in the area. Well, that’s a bonus, I think to myself, at least we’ll have the trees back. Not that I will likely live long enough to see it fully forested again but the thought is reassuring nonetheless.

  A gas station sits to our left at the corner of our road and the highway with only a white, newer model Ford F-150 parked in the lot. Newer model means locking gas caps but I pull into the gas station hoping the keys are nearby. Well, hoping the keys are there and not attached to some transformed, crazed owner. We park about ten yards from the pickup and don’t see anything inside. I look at the gas station front and see nothing there except dark windows staring back.

  “Okay, let’s get out but keep your eyes peeled,” I say as Robert reaches for the door handle. “Is that thing safetied?” I nod toward the shotgun. He looks at the button on the trigger guard and nods.

  We meet in front of the Jeep. “I’m going to go check the truck. You stay here, keep an eye out around us and keep me covered. Get my attention if you see anything moving and be ready to get back into the Jeep quickly,” I tell him taking my gun out of the holster.

  “Do you want me to come with you and cover you?”

  “No, just stay here. You have my back.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  I slide the safety off and check for a round in the chamber as I approach the truck in a semi-crouching, sidling walk, angling to the cab from the rear. I can’t see anyone inside but I don’t want to be surprised by a suddenly opening door slamming into me. About ten feet from the driver’s door, I glance around, checking the gas station store and the drive-up coffee stand in the corner of the lot. This county probably has more of these drive-up coffee stands per capita than anywhere else in the world. Reaching the door, I stand next to it but away from its range of motion. Rising, I peek in the window.

  I wasn’t expecting to see anything so the vision that catches my eye sends a small adrenaline shot through my body. Inside, a man is slumped sideways on the front seat with his legs resting on the driver’s side floorboard. The one eye I can see stares blankly at the dash in front and there is a wet mass of something on the seat and floorboard in front of his head. I know what this is from the couple of years I spent as a firefighter/EMT following the military. The adrenaline junkie part of me had not left by then. Those years also taught me that death is never pretty.

  “See anything?” I call out to Robert.

  “No,” he calls back.

  It is a king cab, extra cab, extended cab or whatever they are calling it nowadays. My eyes venture to the back seat. Nothing. Well, at least, nobody is there. A Styrofoam coffee cup on its side and an empty candy bar wrapper are all I see from this vantage point. I look to the steering column and see a patch of leather dangling on the far side.

  “No way!” I breathe quietly. I step back, reach for the handle, and pull open the door.

  The stench pours out of the door like a physical presence. It is overpowering and I swear the light of the day grows dim.

  “Whoa Nelly!” I say waving a hand in front of my face and hold my breath as I stumble backwards a step. Okay, more like two or three steps.

  He hasn’t had enough time to decompose much; the smell is a lovely combination of feces, vomit, and who knows what else. Regaining some semblance of composure, I make mental note to self: Have Vaseline handy. That was one thing I disliked when in the fire department or riding along with the ambulance; the call of someone who had died in their sleep or, quite commonly, on the toilet. I didn’t mind death or bodies, have worked many gruesome and messy scenes without being affected, and witnessed and been a part of countless others in the military but it was the smell of bowels letting go that bothered me the most. Vaseline under the nose helps some with the smell.

  Holding my breath, I walk back up to the truck and pull the keys out of the ignition. I think of pulling the guy out or at least rolling down the window. That way, if we need to use the truck, it won’t smell so bad. But clarity once again comes. If we need a pickup down the road, there are plenty of new ones available, so I just close the door. The sound of the door shutting is unnaturally loud in the stillness. There is indeed a gas key on the key ring and I open up the fuel tank.

  Back at the Jeep, I grab the siphoning gear. “Bring that other one over to the truck,” I tell Robert. He grabs the can out of the back and follows. “Do you know how to siphon?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, watch,” I tell him putting the hose into the fuel inlet hole. “Slide the hose in all of the way but don’t force it once you meet resistance. You want it close to or at the bottom of the tank.”

  I slide the hose in until it comes to a stop. “Now notice how I put the hose in so the arc of the hose is arched up. That’s for two reasons. If it was arced
the other way, the hose would merely slide along the bottom with the top of the hose then possibly rising above the fuel level,” I say looking up at him.

  “And the second,” he asks.

  “Kneel down here with me.” I point to the tank. “Now listen.” I move the hose up and down slightly. “Do you hear the noise of the hose sliding against the inside of the tank?” He nods. “That lets you know you are actually in the tank. Some later models have anti-siphon screens on the inlet tube to prevent you from putting a hose into the actual tank. If you arced the hose the other way, it would be harder to tell, or hear the hose in the tank.”

  “Now, here comes the fun part.” A friend many, many years ago would cup his hands around the inlet and blow into the hose forcing an overpressure inside the tank. Once he took his mouth away from the hose, the added pressure would start the gas flowing in the hose. I, for whatever reason, could never make this work. Not that I ran around siphoning.

  Glancing around quickly to make sure we were still alone, I put my hand on the hose just past the highest part of the hose on my side. “Here, put your hand on the hose next to mine. You want to feel for a decrease in temp as the gas flows by your hand. The idea is to drink as little gas as possible. The ideal being zero. Once you feel the gas pass by your hand, quickly put the end of the hose into the can and then let gravity do its thing.”

  Opening the gas can, I create suction on the hose, feel the gas pass by my hand, and quick-jam the hose into the gas can. I hear it pouring into the can, and, yay, no drinking of the gas. Ideal conditions achieved. Filling both gas cans, we carry them to the Jeep. With me holding the funnel, Robert pours the gas in from both cans. Whatever ideal conditions were achieved during the siphoning process is quickly lost putting the gas in.

  “Try putting some in the Jeep,” I say after like the fourth time my hand becomes soaked.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Well, try harder. Maybe we aren’t going about this the right way. Try not getting a bit of it in the funnel. Maybe that’ll work better.”

  He gives me a big grin, the first in a while. We have always joked around like this and a sense of normalcy settles in on us with a warm glow. Our relationship has always been close, I mean very tight, and we both get a sense that perhaps things will be alright as long as we have this between us.

  He gives as good as he takes. I can remember playing a co-op game on our 360. We were in the middle of a battle against the aliens on Halo 3. Greatly outnumbered but holding our own, he comments, “You are a really good shot.” I got ready to thank him when he continues on, “I mean every single shot you fired hit me.” Yes, my gamer tag in Halo should have been ‘friendly fire.’

  We finally manage to get the fuel in the Jeep, well, at least some of it, secure the cans and put everything back in. I make mental note to secure a larger funnel and walk back to the white F-150 to put the cap back on, set the keys next to the cap, and close the fuel door. Robert has retrieved the shotgun from the front seat of the Jeep and is surveilling the area. Good, I didn’t even have to tell him.

  “Okay, ready?” I ask.

  “Yep,” he answers and climbs in.

  The fuel gauge reads a little over ¾ of a tank. Good deal. That should be good enough for today, tomorrow, and to get back. I pull out of the gas station, up to the stop sign on the highway, look left, right, and left again — yes, old habits, only, they aren’t really that old — before pulling across the northbound lanes and turn. Southbound toward Olympia.

  I drive by the casino on our right after about a mile down the road. I think it may make a safe place but realize there are far too many entry ways and it would be difficult to secure. I mentally strike it off my list of secure places in the event we need one. With the casino sliding past, Robert asks, “What kind of plane are we taking?”

  I fully expected him to be concentrating on picking up Michelle but he is already ahead of that now that we were on the way. He always surprises me with his thinking abilities and inner toughness. That same fortitude I noticed when he hadn’t texted Michelle back that night. Now, that would have been tough and must have gnawed at him. He is also one to keep his head about him.

  “I’m thinking about a C-17 from McChord if there isn’t anyone there,” I answer back.

  “Do you know how to fly one?”

  “Um, sure,” I answer back with a shrug.

  “Why not a C-130 like you used to fly?”

  “Too slow. And besides, they don’t have any up there anymore that I know of. Traded those out some time ago. I think the ranges are about the same in any case.”

  “Wouldn’t you want one you were more comfortable with though?” Robert asks knowing you can’t just arbitrarily fly any aircraft you choose because you know how to fly. He was close to getting his Private Pilot license and would have completed that this summer. His grand master plan was to head off to the Air Force Academy and go fly fighters. He is fully capable of doing just that.

  “Well, yes, but it’ll take us twice as long, and, like I said, there aren’t any there anyway. It’s going to be a bitch enough with all of the refueling stops along the way, I don’t want to poke around at it too,” I say looking over at him. “I’m not saying there won’t be a steep learning curve needed,” I add after seeing a guarded look cross his face. “And, I will need you to be my co-pilot.”

  I see flash of fire and excitement course through his eyes. To the extent that I am thankful there isn’t anything flammable in the immediate vicinity. Oh wait, there is the gas on my hand although evaporated, I think as I mentally tuck my hand under me.

  “Okay, grab that note pad”, I say nodding toward the tablet sitting in the glove box in front of him with a pen attached. “We need to make a list of what we need to bring with us tomorrow.”

  He grabbed the paper and prepared to write. We think of items and potentialities as we drive to Olympia. When we finish, this is what we have:

  Water — from gas station — 1 bottle person per day — 40 min

  Food — canned (from gas station)

  Bread — if it is still good

  Jam and peanut butter

  Plastic silverware

  Can opener

  Flight suits *I have about 10 of them with rank and patches

  Flight jackets * I have one summer and one winter jacket

  Sleeping bags — 4

  Clothes

  Changes

  Gloves

  Warm coats

  Sweat shirts

  Toiletries

  Toothbrush

  Toothpaste

  Flashlights

  Batteries — D and AA

  Battery operated cell phone charger — in Jeep

  Toilet paper — 5 rolls

  First aid — in aircraft

  Sunglasses

  Tool box

  Towels and washcloth’s — 4

  Rope — 100’ in shed

  Charts, maps, approach plates — worldwide — base ops or wing scheduling desk

  Knee boards — in briefcase

  Flight computer — in briefcase

  Paper tablet — writing on one

  Felt pens — red, black, and blue

  Binoculars

  Weapons — shotgun, Beretta, knives, ammo

  I pull off the exit ramp just as we finish our list. This list is going to put a serious dent in the available space we have in the Jeep. Especially with four people. I am assuming Michelle is going with us. I think about using the truck at the gas station but we may manage with the Jeep. This has been a long day. It feels like a week has passed since getting the kids just this morning.

  “Okay, tell me where I need to go Robert.”

  “Just go up by Capital, it’s only a couple of blocks away from the school,” he answers putting the tablet with the list on it back in the glove compartment and pulls out his phone.

  After several seconds, he says, “We’re just pulling off the highway and almost there.” He listens says, �
�Okay,” after getting what I can only assume is a reply and closes his phone.

  “She’s waiting outside for us,” he says turning to me.

  I had expected a little traffic or to see someone at least but we are met with the same severe lack of movement as we drive through the west side of Olympia. There are very few cars on the road, meaning off the road on the side or in parking lots. At the stoplight about to turn left, a Safeway to our right gives the same message as did the Wal-Mart and Fred Meyer earlier. No one is here. The stoplight ahead blinks red, the only indication that mankind was here not so long ago.

  I turn left and a high school baseball field appears to our right. To the left, the new strip mall is vacant. Well, almost; I see two cars sitting in the lot. It’s a little warm inside, I think as the sun gleams through my driver side window. On any other day, I would take down the Jeep top for a nice, summer day in the sun. Not knowing what to expect, that is just not going to happen today.

  “Well?” I ask as the baseball field slides past us.

  “Turn right here and then a left in front of the school,” he nods toward the street we are approaching.

  A cat wanders out of the trees and dashes across the street vanishing between two houses as we approach the high school. The normal things you would see as far as animals go thrown in with the total lack of people just makes everything all that much more eerie. A painted rock appears on the right by some trees. This is the high school rock the seniors paint as the school year progressed; changing colors throughout the year. I remember that rock well. Not that I attended here but I used to live fairly close.

  One night, a girlfriend of mine decided, along with her friend, that it would be a good idea to paint the rock. Oh, I might add there was a little alcohol involved with that decision. As was seemingly usual, I was tasked to go along. There was my girlfriend, her friend, several Mike’s hard lemonades, a can of spray paint, and me. Every time a car would come by, they would whisper-scream ‘a car’ and scramble back into trees and bushes. I would just stand there and watch them do their ninja impressions. I mean, we were just painting a rock; hardly something that was going to get us anything like solitary confinement or pounding rocks with hammers.